


Awaiting Approval

by unknowableroom_archivist



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-11-28
Updated: 2007-11-28
Packaged: 2019-01-19 15:56:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 800
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12413298
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/unknowableroom_archivist/pseuds/unknowableroom_archivist
Summary: The flowers in the center–a mixture of orange, yellow, and red–all seem so faded, like a watercolor painting that’s been left out in the rain. She wonders when she became so cynical. [originally published 1.07]





	Awaiting Approval

**Author's Note:**

> Note from ChristyCorr, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [Unknowable Room](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Unknowable_Room), a Harry Potter archive active from 2005-2016. To preserve the archive, I began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project after May 2017. I e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [Unknowable Room collection profile](http://www.archiveofourown.org/collections/unknowableroom).

Awaiting Approval by the adjective

She shuffles her feet against the stones leading into the courtyard. She can’t remember another time when she’s felt so… so… how does she feel, anyway? Numb, I suppose. She passes under the stone archway into the moss-covered courtyard, the scenery reinforcing her belief that it changes itself to match the mood of the person entering into it. The layout is always the same: benches lining the stone wall with the occasional bush or tree to separate them, and a stone path surrounding the tangle of flowers and trees in the center. It’s the colors that always seem to change. The day was already gray to begin with, and the cobblestones only served to accentuate its dullness. The only color vibrant enough for her to register is the green of the moss covering the stone path and of the ivy lining the walls. The flowers in the center—a mixture of orange, yellow, and red—all seem so faded, like a watercolor painting that’s been left out in the rain. She wonders when she became so cynical.

She decides that it’s worth cutting class, just to see this sight in front of her eyes. Of all the things to truly understand my feelings, it had to be something that can’t talk back. She laughs; it sounds flat and hollow. She sighs as she pulls a fag out of her pocket before sitting down. She tries to remember when and why she started this habit of killing her lungs and speeding on the cancer as she lights up with the tip of her wand. The “why” was easy enough: Voldemort. If it hadn’t been for his constant madness and killing, the stress in her life wouldn’t have reached the level where smoking felt like a necessary action.

But then, wasn’t that her reason for every bad habit and decision she made nowadays? It was so easy to blame all of her problems on Voldemort, so easy to say he was the cause of all her anxiety and all her pain. She supposes it could just as easily be her own fall for letting herself get that way. Sure, Voldemort causes death and destruction around every corner, but that doesn’t mean I’ve got to let my life go to the shits.

She decides to save optimism for, perhaps, another day. It somehow doesn’t seem to fit in this solemn place.

She takes drag after slow drag and watches the smoke rise slowly away, her thoughts moving in ten different directions at the same time. Somewhere in the back of her mind she registers a shift in the wind and the presence of a very familiar and comforting scent. A storm is on its way. Let it come.

She continues in this manner for some time, completely oblivious to the world around her. Thus, the reason she doesn’t identify another human presence until he calls her name: “Evans?”

She glances slowly up at him, somehow not surprised he would be in this place instead of class, and yet surprised that he didn’t immediately turn back upon seeing her there. “Hullo, Black.”

“What’re you doing out here? I didn’t think the Great Lily Evans skipped class, and to smoke, no less! The scandal! The shame!” She shrugs it off.

“Somehow I don’t think McGonagall would react kindly to me lighting up in the middle of a lecture.”

“Fair enough.” He moves to sit next to her. “Can I bum one? Thanks. Left my pack up in the dorms.”

They sit like this in silence for an immeasurable period of time, neither making a move to speak to the other, until, “Black?”

“Yes, Evans?”

“Why do you still call me by my surname?”

“I could ask you the same question.”

“I do it because you still do. It’s just that, James and I have been dating for almost three months now, but you still don’t seem to like me any more than you did fifth year. I was just wondering why… what I’ve done to keep in your bad favor.”

He sighs and sits in silence for a while, seemingly contemplating his answer. She doesn’t interrupt him. He sighs again.

“You know very well why I didn’t think much of you in fifth and even part of sixth year. I guess I’m just so used to being in one attitude around you. I don’t adapt well to change. And I know… I know my behavior’s been saying quite the opposite, but you’re alright, Evans. Lily. You’re alright.”

She smiles her thanks and they spend the rest of their time in the courtyard in silence. She can’t help but think that the approval of his best friend means so much more than any “I love you” her boyfriend’s ever told her.


End file.
